Today was pretty uneventful. I feel like I've been running the same track for the past few weeks. We shop around, look for food and clothes, weapons, things like that. I can't complain, really. It's better than the bloodshed and violence, right? We walked from place to place slowly, so I dragged my feet and didn't pick up my heels when I took a step. The dust wafted up from behind my legs and settled into my jeans. Mom would scold me if she saw me then. She would have pulled me up by my collar and tell me to walk tall. She was always so picky about manners. As much as we needed it, we never had enough money. Even though mom would make things for us to wear, supplies weren't always available, and not everything can be made with a needle and thread. When we would go on walks to the market, she would always watch the way I walked to make sure I picked up my heels. I didn't understand back then, when I was younger. As far as I was concerned, she was just being a pest by hassling me. Every little kid thinks that at some point in time, right?
I don't remember how old I was, but when I was little, I had a pair of shoes that my dad had brought back from a trip. My toenails scratched the front of the boot and I had to loosen the buckle to get them to fit, but they were too pretty to just throw away. Mom warned me not to wear them, for the fear that I'd get bad blisters, but I didn't listen. They matched the dress I wrote of a couple weeks ago. Well, less matching and more clashing, but at my age then, I certainly didn't care. Most people think it's stupid to wish about things, but I wish I could be back at that age again; not caring about much of anything, not knowing what horrible things happen every day...Anyways, I wore those boots everywhere, much like my dress. In a stroke of rebellion against my mother, I wore them on a hike with my dad and did exactly what she told me not to. I dragged my heels. I dragged them all the way to the picnic place and I dragged them all the way back. I remember my dad's husky voice asking me if I was alright when I winced in pain from the blisters mom had promised me of, but I stayed strong and dragged my heels of my favorite boots all the way back home.
I was exhausted by the time we reached the house. Peeling the boots from my swollen feet, I looked past the oozing, bloody blisters that plagued my feet and cried in disbelief when I saw that my beloved boots were ruined. The heels, the ones I had been scraping against the broken cement, were completely worn through, all the way to my feet. Not only was I embarrassed that my mother was right, but I then had to deal with the tender, fleshy craters that were formed from the broken blisters as well as the sweaty splinters of toenail I had left.
I suppose I should use that as reference, that it's not always as bad as it could be. I should be thankful for the time I have with my group. I hear about other people in the streets of the city...they talk about groups of mercenaries and thugs, people who take up contracts to kill people and retrieve trivial objects for money or fame. That may be a good enough life for some, but not for me. I'm happy, actually. I'm glad to wander the streets of Milwaukee, meeting strange and interesting people.
Today we met a young woman and her son. Their faces were darkened with grief and stress and their bodies were washed-out and thin. I wish I could have cheered them up some how. If I had only found those flowers today, perhaps I'd been able to supply them with some color. The woman was selling soup, though, and we were able to trade some water with her in trade for some. I don't understand how such ragged, sorrowful people could make such delicious food! It seems silly, I know, but eating nothing but stale jerky and bread makes me appreciate such a delicacy. She spoke of her son, who couldn't have been more than ten, claiming that he had caused trouble for her. Apparently, he stole from the men down the road, but he was only trying to help. His eyes were red and puffy with frustrated tears at her words. I know he was trying to help. Anyone could see that. She scolded and chided him repeatedly, more so than I thought was necessary. I stood in place, quietly, just listening to her tell him about all the bad things that would happen because of him and what he did. How she wouldn't be able to do any business with those men again, that they were her main source of income. His face grew redder and hotter, but he held back. His feet were planted firmly on the ground, as if they couldn't move. It looked like it took every fiber of his being was working towards one, singular thing: not crying. I understand that little boy. I'm almost proud of him. He's better than me already, isn't he? He didn't cry. He didn't break down and show his embarrassment like I did back then.
I realize now though, that she was right. He made a mistake. Despite her warnings, he went ahead and did it anyways. It isn't trivial like my shoes, though. This is life and death...eating or starving, reception or denial. That's what this world is now, isn't it? Black and white and red. I guess the only real difference between him and me is that he refused to accept the truth.
Today was pretty uneventful. I feel like I've been running the same track for the past few weeks. We shop around, look for food and clothes, weapons, things like that. I can't complain, really. It's better than the bloodshed and violence, right? We walked from place to place slowly, so I dragged my feet and didn't pick up my heels when I took a step. The dust wafted up from behind my legs and settled into my jeans. Mom would scold me if she saw me then. She would have pulled me up by my collar and tell me to walk tall. She was always so picky about manners. As much as we needed it, we never had enough money. Even though mom would make things for us to wear, supplies weren't always available, and not everything can be made with a needle and thread. When we would go on walks to the market, she would always watch the way I walked to make sure I picked up my heels. I didn't understand back then, when I was younger. As far as I was concerned, she was just being a pest by hassling me. Every little kid thinks that at some point in time, right?
I don't remember how old I was, but when I was little, I had a pair of shoes that my dad had brought back from a trip. My toenails scratched the front of the boot and I had to loosen the buckle to get them to fit, but they were too pretty to just throw away. Mom warned me not to wear them, for the fear that I'd get bad blisters, but I didn't listen. They matched the dress I wrote of a couple weeks ago. Well, less matching and more clashing, but at my age then, I certainly didn't care. Most people think it's stupid to wish about things, but I wish I could be back at that age again; not caring about much of anything, not knowing what horrible things happen every day...Anyways, I wore those boots everywhere, much like my dress. In a stroke of rebellion against my mother, I wore them on a hike with my dad and did exactly what she told me not to. I dragged my heels. I dragged them all the way to the picnic place and I dragged them all the way back. I remember my dad's husky voice asking me if I was alright when I winced in pain from the blisters mom had promised me of, but I stayed strong and dragged my heels of my favorite boots all the way back home.
I was exhausted by the time we reached the house. Peeling the boots from my swollen feet, I looked past the oozing, bloody blisters that plagued my feet and cried in disbelief when I saw that my beloved boots were ruined. The heels, the ones I had been scraping against the broken cement, were completely worn through, all the way to my feet. Not only was I embarrassed that my mother was right, but I then had to deal with the tender, fleshy craters that were formed from the broken blisters as well as the sweaty splinters of toenail I had left.
I suppose I should use that as reference, that it's not always as bad as it could be. I should be thankful for the time I have with my group. I hear about other people in the streets of the city...they talk about groups of mercenaries and thugs, people who take up contracts to kill people and retrieve trivial objects for money or fame. That may be a good enough life for some, but not for me. I'm happy, actually. I'm glad to wander the streets of Milwaukee, meeting strange and interesting people.
Today we met a young woman and her son. Their faces were darkened with grief and stress and their bodies were washed-out and thin. I wish I could have cheered them up some how. If I had only found those flowers today, perhaps I'd been able to supply them with some color. The woman was selling soup, though, and we were able to trade some water with her in trade for some. I don't understand how such ragged, sorrowful people could make such delicious food! It seems silly, I know, but eating nothing but stale jerky and bread makes me appreciate such a delicacy. She spoke of her son, who couldn't have been more than ten, claiming that he had caused trouble for her. Apparently, he stole from the men down the road, but he was only trying to help. His eyes were red and puffy with frustrated tears at her words. I know he was trying to help. Anyone could see that. She scolded and chided him repeatedly, more so than I thought was necessary. I stood in place, quietly, just listening to her tell him about all the bad things that would happen because of him and what he did. How she wouldn't be able to do any business with those men again, that they were her main source of income. His face grew redder and hotter, but he held back. His feet were planted firmly on the ground, as if they couldn't move. It looked like it took every fiber of his being was working towards one, singular thing: not crying. I understand that little boy. I'm almost proud of him. He's better than me already, isn't he? He didn't cry. He didn't break down and show his embarrassment like I did back then.
I realize now though, that she was right. He made a mistake. Despite her warnings, he went ahead and did it anyways. It isn't trivial like my shoes, though. This is life and death...eating or starving, reception or denial. That's what this world is now, isn't it? Black and white and red. I guess the only real difference between him and me is that he refused to accept the truth.
-Bindi